


Wildflowers

by dansunedisco



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Rhaegar lives, Alternate Universe - Rhaegar won, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Misunderstandings, salty teens au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-07 22:50:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10371549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dansunedisco/pseuds/dansunedisco
Summary: "You don't like her."-Or: Wherein Jon and Sansa misunderstand one another from the very beginning.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Check out Mere's gorgeous [salty teens au Pinterest board](https://www.pinterest.com/alicedits/salty-teens-au/) for some ~visual aids~ :D

“You don’t like her.”

Jon didn’t bother denying it. Aegon was right, to a certain extent, and if storming out of the gardens hadn’t told the story of his feelings, then his face -- set in a “rictus of displeasure,” as his brother had likened it -- surely did. “It doesn’t matter if I do or don’t,” he replied. “Father’s will is that I am to be married. To her.”

His brother rolled his eyes. “And since when do you bend to Father’s will?”

“He _is_ the king, you know.”

“And you’re his son. If you’ve found your betrothed so… _unfit_ … I’m sure even his royal highness could be swayed to spare you the burden. ”

Jon curled his fingers into a fist, trying to verbalize the impossible. It wasn’t entirely true that he disliked Sansa Stark. In all respects and by every measure, she was everything he could have asked for in a bride. More than. He was a lucky man. He could recognize that.

But there, in perfection, lied Jon’s problem.

Sansa was the eldest daughter of House Stark. A true beauty with gleaming, copper-red hair and a sweet smile to match the sweet words that had flowed from her perfect mouth while he’d sat, tongue-tied and anxious by the fountains, watching with dread as the brightness from her eyes dimmed and her demeanor grew stony. It had been their first informal meeting, and he’d ruined it. He knew he’d offended her horribly with his silence -- his monosyllabic grunting, more like -- and now he was entertaining the idea of asking his father to break the engagement if only so that he might spare his wounded pride. 

The foolish idea came and went like a flash of lightning, and all he could do was sink into his chair with a frustrated sigh. No one could say Jon Targaryen was a coward, but there was something about romance and courtship that made him uneasy.

“Asking such a thing of Father would be unwise,” Jon said, after a long moment. “Politically.”

Aegon watched him, amusement clear as day in his lavender eyes. “Yes, of course. We wouldn’t want to offend.” 

_No more than we already have,_ Jon thought. It had taken nearly three months for his father to convince Lord Stark that a match between their houses would be well-suited. In that time, rumors of a northern army had flown in with the ravens, and Jon had begun preparing himself for war, not marriage. But the impending crisis had blown over when another raven from Winterfell had arrived with Lord Stark’s seal. In it, they’d found a curt acceptance and no indication as to what had changed the man’s mind. 

A month later, Sansa Stark and her retinue had arrived in the capital… and promptly put every single person inside the keep under her spell. Jon hadn’t heard a single bad thing about her since. Even Rhaenys, who preferred books over people, said Sansa’s company was agreeable -- high honors and rarely given.

That was where it had all tumbled downhill for Jon, who’d never quite forgotten that he was the second son of the king and a bastard. “A royal one,” as Aegon judiciously put it, but a bastard all the same. Old insecurities had bled to the surface despite Jon’s attempts to tamp them down, and any time he was in proximity to Sansa he couldn’t bring himself to say more than a few stuttering words… A habit he hadn’t been able to shake, leading to his most recent disaster in the gardens. He barely kept himself from reaching into his pocket, to touch the favor she’d given him -- the one he hadn’t been able to thank her for. 

She hated him now for certain. She’d been promised a prince, and he’d delivered… well, _himself._ An awkward man who resembled neither his father nor his adoptive mother; someone who hated palace intrigue, and preferred the sword to poems and the harp. In fact, he’d been told on many occasions that his singing voice sounded quite like a cat whose tail had been trodden upon.

He stood, suddenly in the mood to swing his sword at something. 

“Where are you headed?” Aegon asked.

“The training pit,” he replied, halfway out the door and mind firmly on a hay-stuffed dummy that would soon meet its demise.

 

* * *

 

Years ago, if asked, Sansa would have gladly and happily named marriage as her greatest desire. To be the wife of a high lord or a brave knight, running a household as the lady of whatever great keep or castle would be hers… oh, it was all she had dreamed of as a girl, all that she’d wanted. Now…

Now she dreaded the very day.

Jon Targaryen, on paper, seemed like every single fantasy she’d ever had: knighted by the Sword of the Morning for his compassion towards the smallfolk, and by all accounts gallant and brave. But in truth, he was… he was…

“Rude!” she burst out, startling poor Lady up from her bed.

Sansa reached for her direwolf, fingers curling into the coarse fur like the calming touchstone it was. This afternoon had been a disaster. A complete and utter disaster. 

At first, she’d thought Jon -- _Prince Jon_ \-- had been shy. She’d been in the capitol going on a fortnight now, and while he’d been perfectly cordial every time they’d crossed paths, he hadn’t made a point to get to know her outside of the gatherings and feasts they were both required to attend. Then, yesterday, Rhaenys had offered to act as an escort between them…

Sansa had assumed he’d finally worked up the courage to court her. She’d been so _excited_ , and it had all been going so well. The sky had been bright and clear, her dress and hair immaculate, and Jon truly handsome… but when she’d offered him the favor she’d spent a _month_ stitching on the way down from Winterfell -- the one she’d planned on asking him to wear at the tourney after they’d been wed -- his face had turned pinched and red.

She flushed hot at the memory, embarrassed.

Sansa, who had never offended anyone in her life, had offended a prince. She hated him for it.

The favor itself had been simple, a fine but sturdy cloth that was meant to be tied around the pommel of a sword. His favorite of all the tourney trials, according to his sister. Perhaps the simplicity had been the culprit, but Sansa was smart enough to know that such things were _never_ so superficial, and thus it must have been _what_ she’d stitched instead: a direwolf and a three-headed dragon, together. In honor of his family, and the bridge that would unite Stark and Targaryen once again. Clearly, by his sour reaction, he hadn’t taken it that way at all.

She’d heard rumors that Jon had long ago rejected his northern blood to earn his royal title, but she hadn’t let her heart listen to any of it. Surely a man knighted by the courageous Ser Arthur Dayne would never be so callous. Now, his silence over the fortnight… his stricken look when she’d placed the favor into his hand…

It was all too clear that Jon Targaryen was not the man Sansa had dreamed he would be.

She heard shouting then, two familiar voices and a clang of steel. _Jon,_ she thought, already on her feet and to the window that overlooked the training yard. She bit her lip. 

Growing up, she’d never watched the men practice in Winterfell like some of the other girls had. But there was something about Jon that easily kept her attention. _He’s graceful_ , she thought, and a fine swordsman. He beat his brother back with swift jabs and strikes, the both of them laughing as they circled each other between bouts.

Eventually, the sword fighting turned to wrestling, and Sansa had to turn away, a strange heat gathering in her stomach at the sight.

 _One week_ , she thought. One week and she would walk the steps into Baelor’s Sept and trade her maiden’s cloak for the sigil of the three-headed dragon. She dared to look out the window once more and sent a small prayer to the seven that Jon Targaryen would learn one day to love her. 

Or, if he could not, that he would at least be kind...


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaenys nudges Jon towards a realization.

Jon woke the next morning _determined_. To talk to Sansa; apologize for his actions the day previous; to make a concerted effort to get to know her in the week before they would be tied together as husband and wife, for the rest of his -– _their –-_ days.

Of course, it was easy to _want_ to do all those things. It was easy to look out his window and scheme and plan and consider all the ways to win Sansa Stark’s favor well and truly. Instead, he found himself doing everything _but_ enacting his hastily drawn redemption plan, biding his time in the training yards and far, far away from the pristine passageways where his betrothed roamed.

He swung his sword with a grunt. It struck the training dummy with a solid _thud_ , but his grip had been off –- a mistake he rarely made since taking up the sword –- and the strike sent a shivery jolt up his forearm and into his elbow. He dropped his guard and sent the swordpoint into the soft earth underfoot, panting. Admittedly, he was more than a little frustrated.

“You’re up early,” a voice called out.

He twisted around. Rhaenys stood under the stone archway, arms crossed over her chest. She was a rare visitor here –- his sister usually preferred to needle him elsewhere, besides –-  so he could only look at her appearance now with a fair helping of wariness. “So are you,” he replied.

“Me to my books, and you to your swords.” She smiled. “I bid let us put our weapons down and break our fast together.”

He was hungry enough, having skipped his morning meal to work up a decent sweat, and knew delaying whatever ear-lashing Rhaenys had planned for him forever was impossible. “As you wish,” he agreed and went to hang his sword up at the armory.

“You’ve been down here quite a bit in recent days,” Rhaenys noted as they made their way to the family solar together.

Jon, of course, knew what she really meant: _You’ve been everywhere but with Sansa Stark._

“Have I?” His deflection fell flat. That much he knew, even without looking to see his sister’s reaction.

She sighed and pulled him off course by the sleeve. She steered them down another hall and up a flight of stairs, up and up, until they reached her private library in the western spire. At first, he suspected she meant to really lay into him and resigned himself to his fate, but Rhaenys instead planted him in front of the bay windows that overlooked the castle and King’s Landing beyond.

He searched for meaning, then glanced back with a confused, furrowed brow when he found none blazing before him. Rhaenys gave a blustering sigh and pointed over his shoulder. “ _Look_ ,” she said, and Jon followed the line of her finger.

It was Sansa. In the diminutive, but he would recognize her anywhere. The copper shine of her hair in the soft morning light, the way of her walk, the gentle gestures she made when she talked. He could barely see her, but he knew she was beautiful. He squinted. She had what looked like a basket hooked on her arm. “What is she doing?”

“Every morning she makes the round with sweet bread for those on watch,” she replied. “She is very well liked. Have you not noticed?”

He flushed. “Every morning,” he parroted. His stomach tightened into a knot. He knew Sansa had ensnared everyone in the royal household, but he hadn’t put much thought as to _how._

A quiet, shameful voice spoke up: _You saw only her beauty. You thought that was all anyone else would see, too._ All she was worth, all she could provide. A perfect wife and nothing more. His fingers dipped into his tunic sleeve where he’d hidden Sansa’s favor. For someone who was often underestimated, Jon seemed to do a fair bit of it himself.

And, if anything, acknowledging this made the swirl of emotions that kept him so terribly tongue-tied all the worse. She was kind. Smart. A million more positive attributes he couldn’t conjure up, and he was… he was…

Rhaenys cleared her throat. A smirk –- one that reminded Jon all too well of their uncle Oberyn –- curled at her lip.

“What?” he asked faintly.

“You’re _besotted_.”

“Besotted–-  I–- _no!”_

“My eyes do not deceive me,” she said, but spared him further ridicule by remembering their earlier goal of breakfast.


End file.
